Images began to form inside of his mind, as well as feelings of other things being present. His grandmother from far away, her eating breakfast while Norman stared at her from the floor. The old man sitting on the bed, puffing away at the last bit of his joint.

He felt a dark presence as well, fear, doubts of if he could trust this man, if he was safe where he was at, of violent and gruesome scenarios in which he could possibly find himself in, and if all of this was really happening right now. He took in another deep breath, inhaling all of the negative thoughts he had, and exhaled, blowing away his dark energies into a wind that could deteriorate mountains.

He felt a gentle wave of euphoria sweep over his entire body, and he felt that was the force that was making his body vibrate. He imagined himself running towards that feeling, then dissolved the image into little wisps of smoke. He began to push any thought or feeling away from him, concentrating on the in and out rhythm of his breath.

He could hear voices of others trying to interfere with his mission of peace, and he gently brushed them aside in his mind as well. He could feel a genuine love sweep over his body, like the feeling you get when you’re about to cry in happiness, the same feeling he felt when he re-entered back into his body.

Creation.

There it was, there he was together with it.

There were no images of him in space or some geometric monstrosity of shapes and colors.

It was just him, sitting there, his eyes closed, appreciating the hand that created all.

His breath felt like little balls of energy entering his lungs, feeling him up with life.

I am right where I need to be.

It was a voice that was primal, coming from the swirl of light and dark that swiveled as one. He exhaled, realizing that this is what the old man was talking about.

Manifestation.

Bringing his truth into reality by means of controlling his thoughts through his breath. His breath, the most important thing he could do to keep his little dream alive. He inhaled as deeply as he could, trying to fill every inch of his lungs with air, again touching creation as the fingertips of god touched Adams on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel, and he exhaled with finality, as if this breath would be his last.

He put his hands together and placed them to the top of his head, giving thanks that creation had given him a crown, then slowly he brought his hands to his forehead, touching his third eye in acknowledgment, then to his eyes, nose, and mouth, thanking creation for a face to give him senses to experience its beauty.

He paused to inhale upon each gratitude he gave, placing his fingertips beneath his chin, thanking his throat for allowing him to speak his truth. He descended down to his heart, thanking each beat it took for pumping blood into him the same way the sea thanks the moon for allowing it to move.

Finally he stopped at his solar plexus, feeling that this was the center of his body, the center of his universe, where his will resides, his soul. He took his biggest breath, opened his eyes, and exhaled, bringing his hands down past his knees to the floor, and bowed.

He heard the old man’s voice break the silence behind him. “Now that, is how you meditate.”

The boy did feel a whole lot better, fresher, more clear headed.

“If you ever feel overwhelmed, stressed out, anxious, fearful, or in doubt, remember what you just did and center yourself again. Mediation and prayer are from the same cut of cloth, and do not feel ashamed to pray when you need to.” 

The old man walked the boy to the front of the shop.

Next Chapter: The Deal